


Sonata in A Major

by Lumieres



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Mutual Pining, New Year's Kiss, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:56:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9045023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumieres/pseuds/Lumieres
Summary: Yuri is like a meteorite, caught in his atmosphere. If he doesn’t take care of him, he’ll completely burn up, and there won’t be anything left for him to salvage.  (Or: Three times, Yuri and Otabek kiss, only to never speak about it again.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> thanks silent-masque for edits and more information about figure skating, time-limit  & ariaste for answering my (endless) questions about kazakhstan and russia 

       **i. andante grazioso** slow, but gracefully

 

The media hits him the hardest.

They're like a black hole, sucking the life from him. 

They follow him, asking him for words about his performance. With his curt nods and brusque, sharp words, he tries to tell them everything the best he can but what he _wants_ to tell them instead is to _fuck off_.  

“Mr Altin!” A microphone gets shoved in his face. “What does this loss mean for your career? Will you continue? Is it worth it?”

English, he winces. It’s so hard to be himself _in_ English. He can’t find the words, he can’t express what he wants to say, so he just nods at each barrage of questions.

“Of course I am,” he says, the words dying on his lips. His phone is vibrating furiously in his pocket and he _knows_ that it’s his family messaging him like crazy.

All he wants to do is lie down. There should be a hand of his coach resting on his shoulder, but there isn’t. It’s just him, facing the press alone, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  

“Give the man some _fucking_ space!”

Otabek is hardly surprised when he sees Yuri barrelling through the reporters, almost manhandling them as he tries to get through. He spies out Yakov and Lilia standing in the corner, shaking their heads. But there’s little they can do to tame a volcano that’s on the verge of erupting.

He grabs Otabek by the forearm and rushes him out, shouldering everyone as they went past. Soon enough, they’re outside, standing on the rooftops where Otabek can _breathe_.

He places his hands on his thighs and he exhales.

The cold wind against his face slaps reality closer and closer. Even though he’s outside, it’s still hard to think. All the hard work that he’s done over the years have culminated to one too many losses and zero gold medals. It takes its toll, chipping away at his ego, chipping away revealing that he _might_ not be good enough for this.

“God, they’re assholes,” Yuri mutters. “The lot of them.”

The sky around them tonight is static, with thunder rumbling every so often. Dark clouds roll in.

The only light coming from the rooftops itself is from Yuri's phone. The younger man scrolls through his feed, with a bored expression. Otabek catches a couple of tweets and flinches.

 

                              **@mrsplisetsky:** my SON HAS DONE IT AGAIN  #congratsyuri

                              **@otabae:** #congratsyuri but I’m sad for Otabek!! He doesn’t dserve this!! Stop hruting him!!!!!

 

    **Worldwide Trends: **

     #GPF  
1 million tweets 

     #OtabeksRetirementPlan  
254K tweets

     #Нашафея  
555K tweets

     # 滑っているカツ丼  
951K tweets

 

“They should just shut the _fuck_ up,” Yuri says, exiting the app with a loud huff. He holds his phone out and takes a picture of Paris at night, up high and bites his bottom lip as he observes the quality of the image.

When water bursts from the sable clouds, Otabek doesn’t move. He simply angles his head to the sky and lets the water rush over him. Yuri, on the other hand, yelps and darts off under cover, shoving his phone beneath his team jacket. He tugs his hood up and wipes the water from his face in disgust.

There was once a time when he was younger, coming out from a ballet class in St Petersburg, when he had been caught in the rain. He remembered not moving, just staying there, drowning in the moment, in his current reality.

He remembers thinking that he’ll be a somebody _one_ day.

One day, thirteen year old Otabek Altin breathes.  

It’s strange how moments parallel one another and he feels like he’s done a complete circle. He’s won a couple, there’s no doubting that.

He’ll go home to Kazakhstan a hero.

But he’ll leave the arena a nobody.

He turns away. All that effort, all those sleepless nights, accumulate to this: trying so hard not to cry. His eyes burn and he blinks rapidly.

“You still have the European Championships,” Yuri says. He says it with the passion of a competitor that’s tasted glory so many times its lost its sheen. “You’ll do it, you _can_ do it, I’ll even — “

He doesn’t finish that sentence. Otabek doesn’t know if he wants Yuri to finish it.

He finally moves from the rain and beneath cover. He pulls his phone out from his pocket, the screen’s edges slightly broken. There’s a long list of messages from family members he’s forgotten have existed, but his eyes settle on the last couple of messages. The last two messages are from his parents.

              **Sheshe** Balapanym*, I’m really _really_ proud of you. Call me when you get back to the hotel.  

               **Yeka** You tried your hardest and that’s what counts, Beks. Can’t wait for you to come home!

He almost crumples from the message. Stoic, unchanging Otabek, never showing his emotion is about to _cry_. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he leans his head against the wall and closes his eyes gently. A small hand finds its way to grab his and wind their fingers together, squeezing his palm reassuringly.

“ _Beka,”_ Yuri says as he peers through. His eyes are soft and his mouth is a thin pale line. “Are you okay?”

The words die on his lips. _No,_ is what he wants to say, but he’s a soldier. So, instead, he nods. “I’m fine.”

 

 **katsuki-yuuri** ·  30 m  
See you next time, #Paris! @v-nikiforov

 **❤**   1805 likes

 

*baby chick

* * *

 

Otabek sits in the airport with his head between his knees, trying his best to still his racing heart. He hears the news reporters rambling on the screen in front of him in English, but it’s _still_ a language he can’t quite grasp the nuances of. With the name drops and the context, he _knows_ they’re talking about him, and he can guess _exactly_ what they’re talking about.

“ _After coming last in yet another Grand Prix Final, Otabek Altin **still**_ _has not announced his retirement —“_

To retire at the age of twenty-one seems downright embarrassing. Viktor Nikiforov had skated for much longer than him, but his story is riddled with success. Otabek has only had a couple of bad seasons, it’s nothing to stop him from —

“ _Look, Tara, he’s the best that Kazakhstan can offer. One of their star athletes. He’s worked so hard to even qualify for the Grand Prix.”_

Otabek scrunches his hands together, nails digging into his palms, but when the pain isn’t enough, he slowly moves his hand up to his mouth and bites down hard.

What he needs to do now is go on a _really_ long ride.

Not be cooped up in an airport, seated at a café. _Nothing_ like that.

He just needs to clear his head and _think._

“ _But they should be training new and upcoming figure skaters —“_

He grits his teeth at that sentence. They don’t _know_. They don’t know how far he’s been travelling, how much money he’s had to save up. The sacrifices his parents have made for him and the skype conversations he’s had at odd hours with his mother and father.

They don’t _fucking_ know anything.

He curls his hand into a fist and looks to the side.

“ _We’ll have to see if he can change the tide in the next competition.”_

A hand touches his shoulder, gently, enough to startle him, but not enough for him to lash out. He turns to see that the arm belongs to Yuri Plisesky, who’s still donning his _Russia_ team jacket, hood up.

“ _Beka_ ,” he says, voice surprisingly gentle. But the next sentence has the gruffness that he’s gotten used to. “Don’t listen to them, they’re assholes anyway.”

He takes in Yuri’s expression, determination and all, and deflects it. His mind is like a chasm. He’s being sucked into the black hole of his own failures, arms and hands bleeding as he desperately tries to grab hold of the cliff face.

“ _Age will only slow him down. He’s no Viktor Nikiforov.”_

Something gets wedged between his hands and he blinks, mouth agape.

“Coffee,” Yuri says.

It’s enough to ground him, solidify the tether back to the real world. Otabek nods in wordless thanks and swallows more of the brown liquid.

“And pirozhki.” Yuri pushes it towards him and breaks it in half. He takes a bite and makes a face, slamming it back down on the paper. “Piece of _shit_. You can have mine.”

Otabek almost laughs aloud at that, but he finishes himself anyway. Food is food. Something that he’s once had to so thoroughly obsess over, trying to find the right calories, trying to find the right type of food all within his budget.

“Your flight is soon,” Otabek says, his own voice startling him. It’s rough and it’s a little too deep — like he hasn’t used it for a while.

Yuri ignores him and gets on his haunches, rifling through Otabek’s carry-on luggage. He watches with mute curiosity until the he pulls out a teddy-bear. _His_ teddy-bear that he’s brought to every event he’s competed in. In Yuri’s hands, the bear looks a little worse for wear, with parts that have been sewed together with Otabek’s shoddy skills.

“The fuck, man,” Yuri says. He points at the ear that’s about to fall off. “You should get a new one.”

Otabek doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really _need_ to say anything. The bear is his good luck charm, it’s _his_ mascot that grounds him when words can’t. It’s his one constant, the one thing that’s always there for him when the rest of the world has given up.

“ _Looking back at the replays… his free skate is just embarrassing to watch —“_

“God, can someone just _change_ the fucking channel?” Yuri declares as loud as possible.

A couple of people toss annoyed glances at Yuri, but he shoots them glares that could wound or maim in response.  

When no one moves to change the channel, Yuri lets out a loud huff. “Do I have to do everything here?”

He moves from his chair and pulls out a table, screeching as it drags along the floor until it’s just beneath the television. He then stands the table top and stretches his body as far as it will stretch him to change the channel.

“Oi!” someone declares from the back. “I was watching —“

But he’s silenced when Yuri stares back at him, mouth perfectly open and shoulders tense enough that they could squeeze the life out of the man.

“I’m done watching news about skating,” he growls.

It’s now switched to a cooking channel and it alleviates some of Otabek’s pain. He finishes the pirozhki and wipes the crumbs from his mouth. Yuri’s already placed a cup of water in front of him. His friend is hyper-fixated on him to a point where, if Otabek wasn’t feeling so numb, he would have felt uncomfortable.

“We’ve got a couple of weeks before training starts again,” Yuri says.

Otabek gives him a weak smile. “What are you suggesting?”

“I’ll show you Russia,” Yuri says, in his usual no-nonsense way.

“I’ve seen more of Russia than you’ve seem of my home town,” Otabek says. “But I’ve got to go home first.”

“How long will your family keep you, huh?” Yuri says, leaning on his hand. He has that far off look in his eyes, as if he’s thinking of something, of an outcome that never happened.

Otabek shrugs. “Probably months if I don’t tell them I have to start training again.”

“Well, make sure you get to St Petersburg, before everything heats up again,” Yuri nods.

“There will probably be a celebration as well, once I get home,” he sighs. He palms his eyes, a wave of exhaustion running over him at the thought. 

 “I thought you hated people.”

“Some,” he corrects. “I hate some.”

Despite being quiet and not a _people_ person, he’s come to analyse the people close to him. And he knows the drawn out silences between them mean that Yuri has something on his mind.

“More like most of the world competitors,” Yuri says. He’s going through his feed and he smiles a furtive smile to himself. Raising his phone up, he takes a photo. “Do you mind if this goes up on Instagram?”

He holds up a candid photo of Otabek, his expression perfectly neutral and stern. It’s the redness around his eyes that catch him off guard. He looks like he hasn’t slept for days and he has a slight manic look about him.

Otabek shakes his head, hair falling across his face. He numbly thinks that he needs to get his haircut. “That’s fine.”

“You should post more often,” Yuri says.

Otabek shrugs again. He only updates whenever it’s worth it, whenever there’s something _worth_ sharing. Having a life in the public eye is tiring and he’ll do as much as he can to protect the little privacy he has left.

**yuri-plisetsky · ** 2s  
He ain’t so bad #seeya #nextcomp

 **❤**   5 likes           

 

* * *

 

The first thing Otabek wants to do when he reaches Almaty is get a haircut. But instead, he gets bombarded with hugs and kisses from both his parents. They’re grinning from ear to ear, holding his shoulders so hard that he wishes that he could dissolve into thin air.

“We’re so proud of you, botam*,” she says and she just runs her hands through his hair.

In the car ride home, he wants to sleep, but his parents try to pull out all the information about the competition from him, trying to fill in an entire year of absence within just one car ride. He answers to the best of his ability — with short mumbles and abrupt sentences.

As the lazy afternoon city life rumbles past them, his stomach flips. It’s been way too long since he’s been home. _Way_ too long. His parents are still talking, but their voices blur into one, becoming harder and harder to discern what it is they're saying. 

In the end, he finally wins the battle and manages to fall asleep.  

He wakes up with a stiff neck and the windows rolled down. He takes a glance at the car clock, eyes wide when he’s realised that he’s been asleep for _four_ hours. Stumbling out of the car, he rubs his bleary eyes and shoulders the door open.

“Bek? Is that you?” his mother calls from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he says as he enters. He starts pulling out his charger and plugs his phone into the socket, sitting on one of the bar stools by the kitchen. His mother immediately fusses about and hands him plate of food after food. Though, the care of eating still clings to him and he finds himself only trying bits and pieces to maintain form.

Between the food in his mouth, his phone bursts into life. He finds at least twenty texts from Yuri and he tries to hide the warmth spreading across his chest. He doesn’t doubt that Yuri probably has messaged everyone else thousands of times since the competition, but he can’t but feel special that he has garnered some of the younger skater’s attention.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** Suka**, why are taking so long to reply?

               **Yuri-Plisetsky**   Are you still alive?

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** Tell me you’re ignoring me on purpose.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** You should have arrived _four_ hours ago!!! Where the _fuck_ are you??

Otabek snaps a picture of the array of food around him and sends it to Yuri.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** … is this why you haven’t been replying?

               **Otabek-Altin** No I fell asleep.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** Of course you fucking did.

A couple of seconds later, his phone buzzes again.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** how are you feeling?

Otabek turns his phone over, deciding not to answer that.

*baby camel  
**bitch

* * *

 

The last of the day’s sunlight filters through the tree in his front yard. He’s managed to sneak out to avoid more conversations about his life aboard with vague sentences and a thumb pointing outside. His parents know though, so they give him a huge smile and kiss him on the forehead and tell him to go.  

Pulling up the garage door, he lets out a short breath, almost inflating from joy at the sight.

It’s been so long since he’s ridden his own motorbike.

He’s rented so many motorbikes that he’s figured out his favourites, but nothing can compare to the one he bought in the Almaty city centre all those years ago.

He pulls off the cover, lifting his scarf to protect himself from the dust that escapes. Gently, he fingers each part of the motorcycle, like greeting an old lover. He inwardly smiles and he swings his leg over, ready to ride her.

The first check that he got from skating he spent on this. He had traversed all of Almaty on his bicycle, looking for the perfect motorcycle with the exact engine that he wanted. He didn’t want one that was as loud as a Harley, but one that would rumble when he touches her, one that would be quiet when he wants to sneak out to see Almaty at night. 

Lowering his head close to the dashboard, he whispers, “ _Zhanym*_ , are you ready to go for a ride?”

As he twists the keys, the motorcycle hums to life in response.

“I’ve missed you,” he sighs.

And he brings his hand down, his heart hammering in his chest as he accelerates as quickly as he can, down the suburban streets and into the heart of the city.

*my soul

* * *

 

 

       **ii. menuetto** a movement in 3/4 time

Between his practices in his home rink, he finds himself missing life on the road.

His family hosts a large party for him, with relatives who he’s forgotten about, each one rushing around him, congratulating him for getting _out_.

 _Out_ into the world, and making a name for himself.

It’s all bittersweet, though.

Their pride is unmatched as they wade in and out of his line of sight, holding the battered meat in one hand or picking it apart with a fork with huge grins on their faces. It’s the first time in a while where he wants to just walk out because the stimulation is too much. But he grits his teeth together and bears it.

After all, they’re celebrating _for_ him, he shouldn’t be like this.

“When are you going to bring the gold, huh?” one of his uncles says, nudging him. A normal person would have laughed it off, but Otabek shrugs — the words already bleeding into his skin. It’s another wound he’ll have to patch up.

He sends a picture of the party to Yuri, who has been _telling_ him that he should send more pictures, send him updates with what’s been happening. While he trains, days blur into one, and it’s harder and harder to keep track of time passing. So, it’s only when he has markers like this that he remembers that he should keep Yuri updated.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** looks fun!

When he collapses onto the bed after the long night, he realises his entire body is tired but his mind is wide awake. It’s the small ironies that lead him to sleepless nights and he turns over, closing his eyes as he tries to push all the thoughts about the following season away. Sometimes he wishes he could talk to someone about all of this, but it’s all the pressures of a professional athlete.

Very few understand what he’s going through.

 “Is there someone special in your life?” he remembers an interviewer asking him a few days after he had gotten back from Paris. He remembers exactly how his eyes glazed over and how he reverts to his usual response: don’t say anything. The exact stiff back and a small word to diffuse the tension usually deflects these questions.

It’s not that he _doesn’t_ have anyone special in his life.

It’s more that he’s stubborn enough to think that it will never happen. Or if it does, he won’t ever tell anyone.

Then there’s the questions of retirement and he’ll just shake his head with the same determination he had when he initially left Kazakhstan, with dreams of gold floating in his heart and his head firmly pressed between the clouds.

There’s no way he would retire, no matter how many times he’s lost. He’s going to get into the top three, he promises himself that.

This is _his_ year.

He’ll show them all.

Running blistered palms across his face, he sighs loudly and stares at the ceiling. He shifts the heat packs around his shoulders, muscles aching from the intense gym session he had. He scrunches his hands, wondering if he should get himself some gloves, but that seems like wasted money.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** _Oi, you awake?_

Unfocused, he turns to look at his phone that bleeds light into his once dark room. Groaning, he rolls over and pulls his phone out, replying to the message.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** Are you drunk?

Blinking at the message and rereading it over, he’s realised that he’s typed:

               **Otabek-Altin** asb araw as I’ll ecrt be

So, he sends another, hoping that auto-correct will at least swoop in and save the day:

               **Otabek-Altin** ***as awake as I’ll ever be.

Barely a second later, he gets another text.

               **Yuri-Plisetsky** I’ll be in Almaty tomorrow. Pick me up at 12:20pm.

* * *

 

Otabek is early at the gates. He wears punctuality like a skin and he’ll hate himself for being late to pick up Yuri anyway.

Half of him wonders why he’s here but now, after knowing Yuri for way too long, he hardly questions his snap decisions. Yuri’s like a firecracker, ready to burst into action at his own whim. It’s what he finds endearing about the younger man.

When Yuri emerges from the gates, his body tense and ready for action, he searches through the crowd. Otabek raises a hand in salute and his fellow soldier salutes back at him.

Yuri brusquely walks towards him and he _hugs_ him. Astonished, he’s stiff at first but when Yuri nuzzles his chin against his chest, he relaxes and runs a hand through his hair, not particularly thinking.

(His hair smells of papaya and kiwi with a dash of pineapple.)

“The fucking press,” Yuri hisses, turning to his left. He raises another middle finger at them, so that they can’t use any more of the pictures, but Otabek is _certain_ that they’re going to use the hug at some point.

The paparazzi is a web of lies and even among the other skaters, he often finds it hard to tell the truth.

“Why are you here, Yuri?” Otabek asks.

“Can’t I visit a friend?” Yuri says, though there's another sentence threatening to burst from the sides of his lips

Otabek shrugs and turns on his heel, leading Yuri away. He can’t help but feel that there’s something else that he’s not telling him, but he doesn’t pry.

“Show me your home town,” Yuri declares as he sits on the back of Otabek’s motorbike and grips his waist a little too tight. He leans his head on Otabek’s back. “Please.”

“It’ll be a pleasure,” Otabek replies, hoping that Yuri doesn’t realise that the breath’s been knocked out of him.

* * *

 

After a long day of showing Yuri the city, they wind up at a bar. The front is packed with people talking and laughing loudly, hands wrapped around a pipe as they exhale smoke. Yuri's blinking back at him, both with anticipation and a nervousness that makes him look small.

“How old are you again?” Otabek asks as he takes off his helmet. He sets it on the back of the motorbike and holds his hand out as Yuri proffers the one he’s wearing.

“Eighteen,” Yuri replies quickly, straightening his back and puffing his chest out as if that would make him look older.

“Ah, good,” Otabek says and he gently places the palm of his hand between Yuri’s shoulder blades, leading him through the doors. He notices exactly how Yuri’s muscles tense, and _exactly_ how his breath catches in his mouth, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t _know_ how to react to these situations because most of his life has been guess after guess. There are few people who have taught him how to be an adult and a lot of the time, he wishes he’s had more guidance in his life.

“The _sex on the beach,_ please,” Otabek says as he fishes out some money. Yuri mutters a, _"The fuck?"_ “And a quiet booth.”

Yuri’s looking at the hazy place, his eyes wide. There’s a small booth that the waiter leads them to and Otabek takes a seat in the corner, positioning the pillows so he’s comfortable. Yuri sits close to him, their shoulders touching. His heart hammers in his chest and he wonders if he should do anything about it.

He doesn’t.

Of course he doesn’t.

“Have you ever tried shisha before?” Otabek murmurs. He wraps a hand around Yuri’s shoulder as the younger man bleeds warmth into him. It’s these small moments of intimacy that he adores. It's like a drug that he's addicted to. They’re both as confused as one another, with bodies that move without thinking.

Yuri shakes his head. “What flavour is _sex on the beach?”_

“Lemons and oranges… it’s a citrus combination,” Otabek replies. “Usually people start off with double apple, but that’s a little dull for me.”

“Sure,” Yuri says, though he doesn’t completely understand.

When the shisha comes, however, Yuri is enthralled. He looks it up and down and just stares, with his mouth wide open.

The waiter hands him the pipe and he takes it, sucking in a long breath. As the waiter readjusts the coals, he lets the smoke sit on the back of his throat and the flavour coat his tongue.

Yuri laughs when Otabek breathes out.  It’s a sound that Otabek thought he would never hear and he wants to hear it again, so he does the exact same thing, garnering wider smile from Yuri. “You look like a dragon.”

Otabek passes him the pipe and Yuri greedily breathes in to a point that he coughs loudly. Otabek tries his best to hold back his laughter.

“Breathe in slowly,” Otabek says as he glances at Yuri coolly. “And let it sit on your throat for just a while.”

Yuri squints half his face and hands it back to Otabek. “How do you even handle this?”

Otabek again shrugs, breathing it in and angles his mouth in a circle as he provides just enough force to let a couple of smoke rings sail through the air.

“How — “ Yuri snatches the pipe from Otabek and breathes it again. This time, he doesn’t cough, and his mouth is wide open — too wide to perform a proper smoke ring — and all of the smoke just oozes from his mouth. He grimaces.

Otabek does another trick, where he taps the side of his mouth to send smaller smoke rings at faster speeds through one another. He takes another glance at Yuri who again, is completely mesmerised.

“Teach me,” Yuri says. “Please.”

* * *

 

Autumn, he thinks, is his favourite season.

When Otabek was younger, he remembered standing outside his parent’s house with a rake in hand. He would scrape up all the leaves and put them into a pile just beneath the sturdy oak. Then, just for the hell of it, he would jump into the pile and listen to the loud crunch of leaves protesting, being swept up in eddies in the air.

The leaves underneath his shoulder blades, the light breeze and the general feeling of warmth is what _autumn_ is to him.

It’s the safety of it.

And that’s what this kiss feels like.

He clings to Yuri the moment his lips touches his and kisses him with frightening need. Under the guise of night, there’s no one to disturb them and only the stars witness their secret. When they break apart, all breathy and slightly startled and exhilarated, Yuri murmurs, “ _Asshole.”_

They don’t speak of this night again.

 

* * *

 

They get home at one in the morning. In the last five hours, Yuri manages to perfect the larger smoke rings but the smaller ones, he hasn’t mastered. Otabek’s lungs feel heavy from smoking a little too much and his lips are slightly tingly.

As soon as they reach his room, Otabek says, “You can have my bed.”

“Where are you going to sleep?” Yuri asks, standing in the doorway at a complete loss.

“I’ll sleep on the ground,” Otabek shrugs as he heads to his dresser to pull out a couple of blankets.

“But you’ll be cold…” Yuri says.

Again, Otabek shrugs. After growing up in the skating rink, he doesn’t particularly mind the cold. It’s second nature to ignore it, even if he’s in the comfort of his own home.

“Get some sleep, Yuri,” Otabek says lightly. The younger man curls onto his bed.

Before he goes to sleep, he turns over and thrusts a phone into Otabek’s face. “Can I post this?”

It’s a picture of the two of them standing at one of the highest spots in Almaty. The city lights wink back at them, with Otabek’s scarf flying behind him in the wind and Yuri close enough that he remembers smelling the cologne he wears. It’s just minutes after they kissed. But the moment feels so secret that even sharing this image could send out messages to the world.

“Whatever you want,” Otabek murmurs as his eyes flutter closed.

**yuri-plisetsky ·** 1m  
A quiet night in Almaty #peaceful

 **❤**   200 likes  
** v-nikiforov  ** can i tell yakov that’s where you ran off to? #busted

 

Otabek wakes up the next day with Yuri’s leg draped over his and the man’s head pressed lightly against his neck.

 

* * *

 

He has to leave Almaty.

He feels like he’s dying here.

It’s not the people, it’s not his family. It’s just that everything feels so stagnant.

A drive to win, a drive to prove himself again, lights up in his heart and it’ll only be suffocated here. He wonders if it’s because he’s spent the last couple of days with Yuri and has absorbed some of his fire.

(It probably is)

He shoves his feet into his combat boots and runs a list of apologies to his mother when she opens her mouth to protest. He _has_ to win the _European Championships._ If he doesn’t, he’s not entirely sure how his ego is going to manage it.

“Train in St Petersburg with me,” Yuri suggests. “I’ll help you perfect your jumps.”

He winces at the fact that he’s going to have to fork out some money to travel there. And probably pay for rent at an apartment, but the idea of having Yuri help him is already glorious that he’s ready to pay how much it’ll cost.

(It’s worth the lost money)

When Yuri discovers that he about to purchase economy tickets he pulls a face. “I’ll pay you to fly first class.”

Otabek is about to protest but Yuri puts a long, spidery finger on his lips and shakes his head.

So, once he’s managed to say his goodbyes again, he leaves with Yuri.

Uncomfortably, he sits in the first class seat. He jumps when a lady comes too close to him with her lips stained bright red, asking if he wants anything to drink. He manages to mumble, “ _Water_.” And she looks at him with one of those _encouraging_ smiles you would give a child.

It’s just so _lavish_. A little _too_ lavish, he wants to say, but he risks offending Yuri whose foot is perched on the rest in front of him and he’s flicking through the channels.

“What movie do you want to watch?” he asks.

“You choose, Yura,” Otabek says.

Yuri flicks through again and chooses something. They try starting to movie at the same time, but Yuri’s is a couple of seconds before Otabek’s and in the end, he just leans across the armrest and places his head on his shoulder.

Otabek wants to do more than just sit with their bodies touching, but he knows that he can’t. Because it’s their _secret_. Whatever’s between them is something he considers holy and he’ll try his best to defend it from the public eye at all costs.

Yuri rubs his eyes with the back of his knuckles and looks up at Otabek. Otabek leans down and kisses his forehead, making Yuri give him one of those _secret_ smiles.

That’s one of the smiles he’ll fight to win gold for, one that he’ll destroy nations to get _just_ again.

* * *

**yuri-plisetsky · ** 4d    
back on home turf #russia

 **❤**   1545 likes

 

Training occurs every morning, he then somehow gets dragged along to a couple of ballet sessions, and then the food he eats isn’t anything amazing. Sometimes, it’s hard to find amazing food when you’re on such a strict regime.

Today, however, he’s fallen over just one too many times. He limps off the ice, barely making eye contact with Yuri who leans languidly on the edge of the rink. He’s got his phone in hand and his mouth is curved into a small smirk.

“Whenever you’re tense, Bek,” Yuri says, his voice soft. “You stuff up your jumps. Just let yourself _move_.”

“Huh,” Otabek says, nodding.

“Move without thinking,” Yuri says. “The ice knows that you’re nervous. Don’t show it your fear.”

Otabek is about to make his way to the changing rooms but remembering that Viktor and Yuuri had gone just moments before, he changes his mind.

He’s about to take his skates off, his feet throbbing with pain when Yuri catches his hands. “Skate with me.”

Otabek’s body is moving without his consent. Is _this_ what Yuri meant before?

He follows Yuri to the centre of the ice, with Yuri circling him for a while. Then he does a couple of jumps and contorts his body to do the Biellmann spin. Otabek can’t help but admire his flexibility then. He hides a smile with the back of his hand and tries to mimic him. Only his body stops halfway at the pain that rushes down his thigh.

“You’re getting old,” Yuri says as he skids to a stop.

“No one has the same level of flexibility you have, Yura,” Otabek says, his voice barely above a whisper. Yuri’s close to him now. He places to hands on his waist and lifts one of Otabek’s legs up, hand sliding from the thigh to calf. This, they both know, isn’t necessary. But it happens nonetheless, Yuri’s hands moving against his own volition and Otabek doing nothing to stop him.

Yuri seems to snap out of it. He skates off and he’s suspended in air once more, the evening light framing his shoulders and his hair across his face. An angel amongst humans, he thinks dully, until lands perfectly on the ice, back straight and arms out.

And they don’t talk about that again either.

* * *

 

On New Year’s Eve, Viktor forces them to take a break. Otabek agrees with great reluctance, Yuri does so with the arrogance of a person who knows that he’s going to win. Otabek has contemplated changing his program, adding more difficult jumps, but he’s barely been able to land his current ones that he knows that there’s no point until he perfects his routine.

The party, on the other hand, makes Otabek feel anxious. He finds himself standing by the food, picking at the Olivier and spooning that onto his china plate. It’s no surprise, with Viktor’s lavish lifestyle, that everything here is of high quality. He bumps shoulders with another person who, upon realising who he was, begins gushing. Shuddering, he manages to shovel some caviar, skhara and grabs some bread, before excusing himself from the conversation.

He slips outside into the fresh air onto the balcony.

They’re just by the river’s edge, not high enough to see the city lights one by one, but still enough to see the entire city glow. A new coat of snow layers the ground and there are multiple people walking beneath him, with their arms wrapped around him.

Every year, he realises, he’s in a different part of the world on New Year’s. He’s come to know how to pack lightly and how to push aside the constant feeling of homesickness that lays in his heart. At any moment, he knows that he’s going to receive a skype call from his mum, wishing him a loud and cheerful happy new year.

There’s a light knock on the window that makes him turn back.

He sees Yuri emerge with an alcoholic drink in hand, “Thought I’d find you here.”

Otabek gestures in half a circle, not entirely sure how he’s meant to react to the situation.

“A dance battle is happening inside,” Yuri says, nodding to himself. “Thought you might want to see some of my moves.”

“Uh —“ he hesitates.

“Are you saying that my moves aren’t good?” Yuri nudges his shoulder. “K chyortu!” _Fuck off._

The venom in Yuri’s voice is combatted by the softness in his eyes. He looks away, knowing that if he stares for any longer, he’ll probably do something he’ll regret in front of way too many people. So he looks at his food again and begins nibbling at everything.

“Can I take a photo?” Yuri asks. He sounds sheepish. He sounds like he’s about to do something bad.

Otabek shrugs. He sets down his plate and as Yuri’s hand wraps around his waist, the Russian says something that he can’t quite catch. He turns to face him, gasping when their lips touch. Fireworks spread across his body and he feels like he’s on top of the _fucking_ world. Once the moment of surprise is over, he melts into the kiss.

It’s everything that he’s wanted for a while, but everything they’ve done is a secret.

He runs his fingers through Yuri’s long hair, clinging to it with all his hope and aspirations. Yuri is meant to be untouchable, but here he is, so tangible, so _real_ , that he swears he’s going to have to pinch himself to make sure he isn’t dreaming.

Actual fireworks light up the skyline behind them, booming to declare their presence. Yuri angles them so that the fireworks are behind and takes a couple more photos.

Otabek’s face is properly flushed, enough that it makes it look like they’ve _kissed_.

“Can I post this?” Yuri says, showing the photos of the moment with fireworks behind them.

“Happy New Year,” Otabek says instead of agreeing and he leans down to kiss Yuri’s neck, breathing him in.

A small secret has never caused him so much pain before.

 

 **yuri-plisetsky · ** 5m   
happy new year!  #improving

 **❤**   305 likes  
**christophegc** bisous !!  ♡

 

* * *

 

He’s all high strung from tension that he can’t stand this anymore. Every time they’re with each other it feels like they’re treading eggshells, avoiding their secret escapades, ignoring the fact that they have kissed each other more times than two people who aren’t dating should.

He catches Yuri talking to Viktor after training one evening. They don’t know he’s there, in the corner, trying to rest, because he hasn’t moved for a good thirty minutes.

“How did you know you were in love with the katsu-don?” Yuri asks.

Viktor gives him a knowing smile. “Love. An emotion that many have tried to describe.”

“I don’t need your poetic bullshit,” Yuri hisses. “Just tell me how you knew.”

“I looked at him and I thought —“ Viktor starts, sighing into the memory. “I thought that I didn’t want to be with anyone else.”

Yuri curses loudly and stomps off. Viktor, slightly surprised, spins around only to see Otabek seated in the corner. He gives him an apologetic smile and is about to talk to him, but Otabek moves away before he can.

When steps outside, with his duffel bag slung across his shoulder, Otabek realises that Yuri is like a meteorite, caught in his atmosphere. If he doesn’t take care of him, he’ll completely burn up, and there won’t be anything left for him to salvage.

He doesn’t talk about this to anyone.

* * *

 

    **iii.** **alla turca** turkish march

Otabek leans on the railing of the bridge just above the Fontanka river. The colourful buildings, the lights strung loftily across the water don't feel like home, but it's close enough. He desperately wants to smoke, wants to relax, but he shoves those urges down. Tomorrow, he'll fly off to the European Championships.

"Thought I'd find you here, Beka," Yuri says, materialising from the shadows. Otabek's eyes close gently, realising that he chose an obvious place. All he wants to do right now is to be alone so he can draw the strings across the starry thoughts in his mind, find the constellations and the focus that he's lost over the weeks. It's not that his skating isn't _terrible_ , it's that he's just more confused than ever.

He angles his head ever so slightly to Yuri and pieces together a smile that's to the left of happiness. 

"Stop smiling," Yuri scowls. "It doesn't suit you. Especially when you look like that." 

The smile fades from his lips and he frowns instead, eyebrows furrowing. 

"What's on your mind?" Yuri asks. He still holds his phone in his hand, as if he's always waiting for a message from someone or he's ready to take a photo. 

Otabek rolls the tension from his shoulders and he shrugs. He wants to say it all, but he knows that they've made silent vows to never speak about it. 

Yuri wraps his hand around Otabek's and brings them close, so that their hips touch. Yuri's still a lot shorter than he is, but since they met, his jawline has hardened and his cheekbones are higher. He moves his hands up to Otabek's neck - who's frozen in place. His heartbeat hammers in his chest and he turns away, eyebrows furrowing with unhidden pain. Yuri's hand traces the outline of Otabek's jaw with his soft hands and he leans into it, taking in the warmth. 

"What does this mean, Yura?" Otabek asks him. His voice doesn't sound like his anymore. It's lost the fortitude that he's grown accustomed to. 

Yuri gets onto the tips of his toes and brushes his lips against Otabek. Before Otabek fully invests himself into the kiss, he pushes him away, to Yuri's disgruntled cry. 

"Yuri," Otabek says. "Why are you doing this?" 

There are no words that sprout to Yuri's lips. He's gaping back at him, shock, fear and  _distress_ all going through his eyes at once. 

"What does this mean?" Otabek repeats. He's about to bring Viktor up but that would mean having to reveal that he had heard their conversation. 

They both know what it means. 

But they're both afraid to say it aloud. 

Because saying it aloud means that it's real. Saying it aloud means that it's no longer their  _secret_. 

Yuri stuffs his hands into his pockets, eyes barely meeting his. "You should concentrate on winning." 

 

* * *

 Otabek wraps the scarf around his neck and breathes out. The competition is tomorrow and his stomach is tossing with nerves. His parents have sent him so many encouraging messages that he feels even more sick. He doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve them — always caring and always happy for him, even if he’s fallen.

Rubbing his hands together, he moves into the hotel. It had cost him far more than his usual hotels he haunts, but Yuri had insisted that they booked a room next to each other. Something about it being better luck to be near other skaters.

He’s surprised when he sees Yuri sitting outside his room, legs splayed out, playing on his phone.

“Yuri?” he asks, quiet enough to catch his attention, and quiet enough to avoid catching the attention of Viktor and Yuuri kissing a couple of rooms away.

“They’re disgusting aren’t they?” Yuri scowls. “They’ve been at it for ages.”

Otabek doesn’t really have much to comment on. He sets his scanner so that the door opens with a satisfying click and angles his head inside.

“I just wanted to say good luck for tomorrow,” Yuri says, nervously. There’s another unspoken sentence between them. Otabek waits patiently for Yuri to continue speaking. The boy angrily bashes his hair to the side and says, “I want _you_ to be on the podium. Prove the asshats who have said you should retire _wrong!”_

And with that, he leaves his room in a flurry.

* * *

He’ll keep skating until he falls over. He takes Yuri’s advice. Just let his body _move_. It’s the act itself that catches him off guard and the elation that threatens to burst when he lands everything he lands. He skates like there’s no tomorrow, like the only moment that matters is _now_.

He’s the second last to perform, which means shortly after, he’ll know his fate. He’ll know if he’s made it or if he’ll sink to the bottom like an anchor on stormy waters. He hears Yuri’s, “Davai!” in the crowd, but that’s about all that he hears apart from the music. The cheering, the clapping, is simply background noise he has to filter out.

The music is _his_.

And the moves are just an extension of his skin. He knows it all as intimately as he knows _zhanym._ If he cuts himself now, he swears he’ll bleed a sonata.

When he finishes, he’s gasping for air like a fish out of water. All his muscles seize up and he has to do a couple more skates around the rink to stretch out.

Yuri’s already by the mouth of the rink. He excitedly buzzes and he walks Otabek to the seats where he discovers his scores.

“That was amazing,” he breathes out. He hands Otabek’s bear back and slaps him on the back, just between his shoulder blades. “Go get a medal, you hard working piece of fuck.”

They announce his scores.

 _Silver_.

Fucking _silver._ He breathes the words in. He’s feeling lightheaded and the world around him spins. But he’s got _silver_. He’s finally ranked.

 

               **@altingirl8741*:** I knew he’d make it! #notretiring #otabeksback

               **@p-lisentsky: ** WHAT my TWO SONS have DONE IT? #otayuri clinches first and second!!

 

    **European Trends: **

     #EuropeanChampionships  
875K tweets 

     #maismerde  
88K tweets

     #примадонна  
651K tweets

He stands next to Yuri on that podium — the teenager who has scored another gold. Their eyes meet, and Yuri dips his head with silent pride. It radiates from him, like a pulsating star, ready to burn free.  

*golden girl

* * *

 

“You did it,” Yuri says as he leans against the locker, away from the prying eyes of the press. He holds up his phone and asks him to get into the shot, posting a picture of their dual win. The silver and gold medals catch the light and he’s still feeling a little dizzy from finally getting a gold medal.

In his pocket, his phone is vibrating furiously. And he knows that his parents are excitedly congratulating him. It’s as much _his_ win as its _theirs_.

**yuri-plisetsky · ** 2m   
no longer #otago, he’s  #otaback!

 **❤**   1125 likes 

 

Otabek wonders if _his_ entire life is on Yuri’s Instagram — more than what’s on his. There are moments that he can’t particularly remember, moments that he’ll rather forget.

He looks at his hands, suddenly unsure what to do with as they lapse into a companionable silence.

“Oh fuck it,” Yuri mutters. He grabs Otabek by the side of his face and kisses him with hunger that can’t be satisfied, until Otabek can barely remember where he ends and Yuri starts. The two of them, entangled in an embrace that could last forever and _ever_.

The others in the locker room hoot and clap, bringing them from their reverie.

They're both out of breath, they're both disoriented, and their cheeks are as equally red. But it's the small smile that bursts like the sun after rain on Yuri's face that makes him laugh.

"Wait is he laughing?" he hears someone ask, a little too loudly.

They both ignore it, Otabek leaning into Yuri, nuzzling his neck.

“Moy dorogoy,” Yuri whispers. _My darling._

Finally, they talk about it.

**Author's Note:**

> happy holidays and thank you for reading c:   
> 
> feel free to send me requests: [Tumblr](the-teacupshatters.tumblr.com)


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